it him in the full dress of his country, as a specimen
of the men which it produced. "I have seen him, John," said Lady Rae,
whose protector and attendant John always was when she went forth on
occasions of business of importance like the present.

"And what he'll say, my letty?" inquired John in a low and gentle tone,
and stopping to catch Lady Rae's communication.

"Not much that is quite satisfactory, John. He speaks in a strange
style, but I think there is ground of hope. He did not altogether refuse
the prayer of my petition, but bade me call upon him again to-morrow."

John looked grave, but made no reply. His lady walked on, and he
followed at a respectful distance.

The former now directed her steps to a locality in the city with which
she was but too familiar, and which she had had occasion of late but too
often to frequent. This was the Tolbooth--the place of her husband's
confinement.

On reaching the outer entrance to the jail, the low half-door, thickly
studded with huge-headed nails, by which it was temporarily secured
during the day, was immediately thrown open for her admission by the
turnkey--a little crusty-looking personage in a fur cap--who had been
leaning over it, listlessly looking around him, on her ladyship's
approach. As the latter entered the prison door, the former stood to one
side, doffed his little fur cap, and respectfully wished her ladyship a
good morning.

"How are you to-day, James?" said Lady Rae in kindly tones; "and how is
my lord?"

"Quite well, my lady, quite well," replied the little turnkey, extremely
proud, seemingly, of the condescension of her ladyship. The latter
passed on, and commenced threading her way through the tortuous but
well-known passages which led to her husband's prison-room. John M'Kay
followed his mistress into the jail, previously leaving his arms at the
door--a condition to which he had always to submit before gaining
admission. Having denuded himself of his weapons, John also passed on,
but not before he had shaken his fist ominously in the face of the
little jailer. This was John's constant practice every time he entered
the prison; and, simple as the act was, it had a good deal of meaning.
It meant, in the first place, that John associated the misfortune of his
master's confinement with the little turnkey's employment; that he
considered him as aiding and abetting in the same. It further meant,
that if it were not for one thing more than another,